Article 2
[I’m doing something a little different with Rick On Theater the rest of this month. When the
September issue of American
Theatre magazine came out, I
saw that there was an article on documentary theater, which, as ROTters know, is a subject of interest to
me. (See my article “Performing Fact:
The Documentary Drama,” posted on 9 October 2009.) I figured I’d republish the AT piece
in an upcoming slot on the blog. When I went to the AT website to download the article for my
files, I found that there wasn’t just one article but a series; the others
weren’t all published in the magazine’s print edition. There are seven
articles, three of them too short to run alone so I combined them. So I
have a series of five potential posts about documentary theater. I’ve
decided to shorten the gap to three days between posts (as I often do for
related pieces), and post all five selections in a row starting today, 15
September. The only other time I republished a bunch of pieces
together like this was a series of six open letters on theater by
Washington Irving I ran in August 2010.
[The overall on-line reference for all seven
documentary theater articles is on the American
Theatre [Theatre Communications Group;
New York] website dated 22 August 2017, http://www.americantheatre.org/category/special-section/on-the-real-documentary-theatre (which has
links to the separate articles). The
individual articles and the dates on which I’ll post them (under the blog
heading “On The Real: Documentary Theatre,” the series’ umbrella title) are as
follows: “A History of U.S. Documentary Theatre in Three Stages” by Jules
Odendahl-James, 15 September; “Ringside? Let’s Take Down the Ropes” by Anna
Deavere Smith, 18 September; “Real Talk About Real Talk” by Amelia Parenteau,
21 September; “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Documentary Theatre?” by
Parenteau, 24 September; “A Room Full of
Mirrors” by Rob Weinert-Kendt, 27 September; “‘Foreign to Myself’ Delves Beyond
the Trauma of War” by Brad Rhines, 27 September; and “Our Reflection Talks Back” by Carol
Martin, 27 September.]
ON THE REAL: DOCUMENTARY THEATRE | THEATRE HISTORY
“RINGSIDE? LET’S
TAKE DOWN THE ROPES
By Anna Deavere Smith
Theatre ought to grow
our moral imagination in a time of crisis. How do we get there—and who is ‘we’?
A version of the following speech was presented on June
23, 2016, as the opening plenary of Theatre Communications Group’s national
conference in Washington, D.C., almost 20 years to the day after playwright
August Wilson delivered his influential “The Ground on Which I Stand” speech on
June 26, 1996, at TCG’s conference in Princeton, N.J. Portions of this text
formed part of Notes From the Field, which Smith has performed at California’s
Berkeley Repertory Theatre, American Repertory Theater in Cambridge, Mass., and
Second Stage Theater in New York City.
End of summer, 1996.
I had stepped off the campaign trail—which was where I spent a lot of
the summer and fall of 1996, doing research for my play, House Arrest:
The American Press and Its Relationship to the Presidency. I was traveling
on both President Clinton’s campaign plane and on Bob Dole’s. I even traveled
with the Young Republicans on a train into San Diego, where the Republican
convention was staged, and to Chicago for the Democrats’.
Into my road-weary suitcase, I threw Jack Kerouac’s alcohol-saturated
piece Big Sur. I was bound for rest and reinvigoration in the
dramatic landscape of the same name along the California coast. I tossed in
some Etta James CDs, a copy of The Boys on the Bus, which I
was carrying everywhere to read so I could better understand campaign culture.
It remained unread, as did Hunter Thompson’s Fear and Loathing on the
Campaign Trail. When I finally read Fear and Loathing after
Thompson died, I regretted that I had not read it before doing my massive swing
state-to-state with the candidates. Ironically, Thompson’s irreverent whiskey
prose would have kept me from taking the press as seriously as I did.
By the time I hit the campaign trail, the press corps drank Perrier
instead of whiskey and still spoke of the nightmares they’d had while
undergraduates at Harvard. They were very upper middle class—kids in private
schools, etc. When I look back on that time, I realize how “inside” the press
strove to be. Now I understand that we’d be better off with an edgier, less
“mainstream” group. Current presidential politics reveal that we need outsiders
who move in unexpected ways, in unexpected places, in the world of letters and
ideas. Our world is unknown and unexpected—full of surprises. To strive for
comfort and the life of the bourgeoisie cuts off curiosity and mobility.
This was the age of “gotcha” journalism. An age that would make many
talented people wary of getting into politics. I am told that this
hypervigilance was a result of the trauma of having been too “inside” while a
couple of unknown reporters from the “outside” broke the Watergate story. As I
look back on the ’90s, I see that this gotcha-ism, seen as a kind of necessary
cowboy mentality, was only a performance. The gotcha-ism was still about
appearances. As we see from our current presidency, for all their gotcha-ism,
they were still setting their sails in the wrong direction. They were still too
entertained by themselves and the theatre of their punditry to know what was
happening in the country.
We in the real theatre must hear this as a cautionary bell. It’s within
that frame that I tell you the story of August Wilson and Robert
Brustein and our trip to Town Hall.
Just as I was about to head down Highway 1, I received a message (this
was before text and the proliferation of email) from Don Shirley, a
columnist and critic at the Los Angeles Times. He wanted to know my
opinion of the debate. Debate? I was so ensconced in the campaign and the
history of presidential campaigns that I thought he was referring to the
19th-century Lincoln-Douglas debates.
Shirley’s call was about what we now refer to as “Ground”—August
Wilson’s speech at the 1996 TCG conference and critic Robert
Brustein’s response. I did not know about the controversy. So before returning
the call, I read both speeches. In actuality, there was no debate. Rather,
there was a series of monologues and a metaphorical ringside audience that sat,
for the most part, in shock but passive observance.
Wilson called for greater equity in the theatre, a larger presence of
blacks in the theatre, and he denounced what was then called colorblind casting
or nontraditional casting. Brustein attacked many of the premises in Wilson’s
speech. Wilson responded. These three monologues were published and there was
much discussion. Many were shocked at Wilson’s passion. Some told me that given
his stature in the theatre, it would seem that he would be “happy” or
“content.” He was widely decorated (Pulitzers, Tonys, etc.). In fact, Brustein
proposed that Wilson’s passionate critique of the theatre came as a result of
his not getting a Tony Award that very year.
My read? Wilson’s discontent was less about his own situation and more
about the situation of his race. Brustein was among those critics and scholars
in the ’90s who denounced what they called “victim art.” (Some would respond by
pointing out that anything that was not written by a straight white male would
be in that category.)
I returned the call from the side of the road, somewhere around Salinas.
“Thank you for calling me back so soon,” Shirley said. “Sure,” I said. “But I
can’t talk to you about the debate because I have not spoken to either Mr.
Wilson or Mr. Brustein.” Long pause. “Oh,” was the response. He seemed
surprised that I wouldn’t just spout off my opinion without having attended the
conference, or having spoken personally to either Wilson or Brustein.
Big Sur inspired me with an idea. I thought about one of my favorite
recorded human interactions, A Rap on Race. Margaret Mead, the
anthropologist, had invited James Baldwin to have a long recorded conversation
about race. They had never met before. They talked for hours and hours. Decades
ago, I had purchased the six-record set at the American Museum of Natural
History. It is a long, thrilling sharing of ideas. It ultimately breaks into a
full-fledged verbal battle. [The conversation was recorded on 25 August 1970
and edited transcripts were published by J. B. Lippincott & Co. of
Philadelphia in 1971.]
Intoxicated by the magnificent rock arch at Pfeiffer beach in Big Sur, I
thought about the exchange which I’d first heard at the tail end of the 1970s
but it always stuck in my mind. It got fiery sometimes, but often ended in a
good and new perception. Take this, for example:
[Performing
both parts]
Margaret Mead: What
I’m trying to consider is, whether there is an inevitable difference in the spiritual
stance. In your—
James Baldwin: We
can’t talk about the spiritual stance unless we talk about power! I’m talking
’bout power. I am talking about that South African miner on whom the entire
life of the Western world is based.
Mead: Well, I’m
just sorry, because it isn’t only based on that South African
miner. It’s based on miners in this country! And miners
in Britain that are underground!
Baldwin: It’s the
same—it’s the same principle.
Mead: It isn’t the
same principal! As long as you are going to make—continually make it racial.
Baldwin: I’m
not being racial!
Mead: But
you are being racial! I bring—I present you—
Baldwin: Charles
Dickens talked about kids being dragged through mines long before they
discovered me.
Mead: That’s
right. But you know we’re not having a rational conversation.
Baldwin: We’re
talking about the profit motive.
Mead: We’re not—
We weren’t!
[Baldwin
laughs]
Mead: You said if
it’s power. There’s a difference in power. So, I said okay, you reverse it, did
you reverse it?
Baldwin: Look,
lemme put it this way—
Mead: What I feel
is this. We agree that we’re both Americans. We agree in the sense of
responsibility for the present and the future. You have approached this present
moment by one route and I have approached it by another. In the terms . . . in
the colors of our skin you represent a . . . a course of victimization and
suffering and exploitation and everything in the world—we can make any number
that . . . and I represent the group . . . Now wait a minute. If you just use
skin color, I represent the group that were in the ascendancy, were the
conquerors, had the power, owned the land—you can say anything you like. All
right. Now here we both are. Now, furthermore, however, I do not represent and
I never have been a part in the whole of my life, because of the accidents of
my upbringing and so forth, of the kind of psychology that would perpetuate
this. You also have moved around, have lived in many parts of the world, and
although you completely understand what happens here, but you have included a
lot of other things in your psyche. Now is it necessary for you to . . . to
narrow history, and I still want . . . to think this is a phrase . . . and
express only despair or bitterness while I express hope? And is this intrinsic
to our position at the moment? Or can we . . . both of us out of such a
different past and such a different experience—and a contemporarily different
experience because you in your own country, wherever you go, are likely to meet
with insult, with indignity—
Baldwin: Danger.
Mead: Yeah.
Whereas wherever I go, on the whole—if they haven’t heard me say I was in favor
of marijuana—I am greeted with, on the whole, kindness. So that
contemporaneously your experience and mine will continue to be different. Now,
given that fact, can we both, nevertheless, stand shoulder to shoulder, a
continent or an ocean away, working for the same future? Now, I think this is
the real problem.
I had always wanted to see a modern rap on race, but frankly there were almost no white
people around then (or now) who would speak as truthfully as relentlessly
openly as Margaret Mead. Both Mead and Baldwin were in pursuit of an American
truth.
“Okay,” I thought. “Gotta get Wilson and Brustein together.” Wilson had
the fire of Baldwin and Brustein had the candor of Mead.
Back in Washington, D.C., my headquarters for the research on the
campaign—research which would become my play House Arrest [premièred 7 November 1997 at Arena;
revised version débuted at Los Angeles’ Mark Taper Forum on 9 April 1999]—I
made the calls to Brustein and Wilson. This was the perfect place to plan the
convening. I lived in a 19th-century townhouse owned by a Republican
congressman who was married to a liberal, Boston Brahman Democrat. We often had
lively debates across party lines. There was a bumper sticker in the kitchen:
“The Road to Hell Is Paved with Republicans.” In magic marker was written,
“except for Amo” (Amory Houghton, the Republican Congressman). The Democrat,
Priscilla Dewey Houghton, was a faithful board member of the Arena Stage, which
had commissioned my play. During my stay, Priscilla had gotten papers on the
history of the house, revealing that slaves had worked and lived there.
“Have you and Robert Brustein actually debated your ideas in person?” I
asked Wilson.
“No.”
“Have you ever met him in person?”
“No.”
“Would you do so if I could arrange it?”
“Yeah. If you will moderate it.”
I called Robert Brustein. I asked the same question, and got the same
answers, including, “Yeah. If you will moderate it.”
My original idea was to have a small event in a nice conference room at
New York University, where I was going to be in residence that fall. As part of
the residency, I had been asked to do some public panels, discussions, and
debates. An assistant in the department that hosted me had been given the task
of setting up logistics. Something went wrong in the way she approached
Brustein’s office and he decided not to go forward.
I needed a Plan B. How could three monologues go down
as debate—in the theatre?
I called John Sullivan, who was then executive director of TCG. The
“debate,” after all, had started at a TCG conference. He was excited about this
idea. He called me back and suggested that Town Hall in New York would be the
perfect venue.
Town Hall?
That seemed like a much bigger event than I had in mind, but if the
staff of TCG felt the idea warranted such attention…
I started doing in-depth research on both men. Somewhere close to the
event itself, I was told to call the PR agency that had been hired to promote
the event. A lot of excitement came from the other side of the phone. The press
rep was taking bets. “Wilson will take the fight,” he said with assurance.
Ringside.
Uh. Oh.
I had not planned on a circus.
In my introductory remarks, I alluded to the conversation between James
Baldwin and Margaret Mead. But much to my dismay, neither of the two conversants
had much appetite to engage in a conversation. A sinking feeling descended from
my head to my throat to my stomach. Though I had stepped onstage with a healthy
amount of adrenaline, my blood pressure dropped significantly.
During the intermission, TCG staffers descended upon me as if I myself
were a boxer about to be eaten alive, with many notes scrawled on pieces of
paper, meant to help me pick up the pace, ask provocative questions, and make
the event more exciting. If memory serves me, there were also 3×5 cards with
questions from the audience—headless, voiceless, presence-less questions.
Back onstage I went, resigned that I was in a different reality than the
staff.
As the timer indicated that the end was coming, I asked each gentleman
if they had learned anything from the other. Brustein said that he had learned
that August Wilson was really a teddy bear. Wilson responded that he was, make
no mistake about it, a lion. These brief last words were reported
in The New York Times.
Lani Guinier, legal scholar then at Penn, now at Harvard, had come to
town to see the event. I have met very few scholars who are as generous and
openhearted as Lani. The next morning, she called me on the phone. “I want to
help you,” she said.
Lani said I should have assembled Brustein and Wilson in a room alone,
or with just a few people. “Just like that Margaret Mead/James Baldwin
conversation you talked about.” What could have been a deep dive into different
ideas about art and theatre was not the boxing match people thought it would
be. I think the two gentlemen said all they had to say in print. In short, the
onstage debate was a disaster in my view.
[The debate took place on 27 January 1997.]
A New Civil Rights Movement
My experience on the campaign trail should have prepared me for what the
theatre of the event was meant to be. If 1996 was the peak of gotcha
journalism, my colleagues in the theatre seemed to be after a gotcha
conversation. Alas, as I look back on that era, I see that these “conversations
about race”—which were often prefaced with a promise that it’d be “like a
living room”—did us a disservice. I’ve been on several of those panels of the
last two decades. They are simply awful. They are shouting matches where people
with great verbal acuity seek to take up as much time as possible. Very little
is accomplished. It’s kind of like rap music: It is a display of verbal
virtuosity. The audience sits in judgment and passive observance.
What we need are events where the audience is provoked to do something.
Ringside is not where we ought to be. We ought to be in our
world making a difference. That’s what we promise in mission statements and
grant applications. Theatres have an opportunity to disrupt and even take down
the ring; to reconstruct the position of the audience. Theatres could lead the
way and pump up the health of an active citizenry.
For decades, I have been traveling around America with a tape recorder.
My grandfather said, “If you say a word often enough it becomes you.” I have
been trying to become America, word for word. If there are any perceptive
psychiatrists in the audience, you would say that my search for American
character is a healing strategy, a balm against the de facto segregation into
which I was born in Baltimore, Maryland. Segregation hit me in a way that
caused me to question the degree to which survival required me to lose some of
my own empathic imagination. To cite Martin Buber’s I and Thou: We
can have either I/it relationships where we turn persons into things, or I/thou
relationships where we struggle with what I now call “the broad jump toward the
other.”
The tape recorder has given me the necessary distance to come close to
strangers. I tape-record people, usually about controversial events, in principle
on both sides of the controversy but in reality not always. I then learn what I
have recorded, word for word. I am trying to put myself in other people’s shoes
by putting myself in their actual words.
I am writing a new play called Notes From the Field: Doing Time
in Education. [An early version of Notes
ran at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre 11 July-2 August 2015; the completed play
premièred at Boston’s American Repertory Theater on 20 August 2016.] It was
inspired by my learning of what is often called “the school-to-prison
pipeline.”
The U.S. Department of Justice released statistics revealing that poor
black, brown, and Native American children are disciplined more harshly and
expelled and suspended much more frequently than their middle-class brothers
and sisters. These suspensions and expulsions often result in residencies in
juvenile hall. As California’s Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Tani
Cantil-Sakauye, says, “If you are not in school, you are in trouble.”
I have been traveling in four geographic areas: Northern California (to
Stockton, a bankrupt city, and further up the coast to the Yurok Indian
reservation near the Oregon Border), Philadelphia, Baltimore, and most recently
South Carolina, to Charleston, and all along the “Corridor of Shame,” so named
because of the state of its public schools.
People say that we may be on the verge of a new civil rights movement,
and Sherrilyn Ifill, president of the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, says it will
happen at the intersection of education and law enforcement. She calls for an
investment in public education and fairness in law enforcement that will be as
large and as grand as the interstate highway system. Imagine that.
In the meantime, we have a public school system that is in dire need of repair,
and policing looks pretty bad these days. But we cannot expect, as Obama said
after the riots in Baltimore in 2015, to be able [to] fix our problem of
inequality by fixing the police. The police are the front line, the guard dogs
keeping the rich from the poor and vice versa.
Here are some excerpts from my play [i.e., Notes From the Field].
[Performing]
Allen Bullock
Baltimore Protester
“Big Stick”
Baltimore Protester
“Big Stick”
I
don’t even look the police way, tell you the truth, that’s not even me, like .
. . I don’t even pay the police no mind, like, they look at me, I turn my head,
I look ba—if I’m gonna look back at you, I’m not gonna mug you, I’mma just look
away, you feel me? That’s all it is to—
Because,
if you look at a police so hard or so straight—I don’t know, like—see how it
was. You feel me? In the way, like, see, how he was [Freddie Gray], you feel
me, in the way he was around this neighborhood—if the neighborhood police—they
don’t care, they do not care about none of that. You—if they know you
in that neighborhood, they gonna do something to—I don’t care what neighborhood
you in, it could be a quiet neighborhood, anything, the police know you from .
. . being bad, or not even being bad, but being around
the area—anything, hangin’ with somebody that they know that’s bad? They
gonna harass you, and if they gonna harass you: “Why you
lookin’ at me like that?” They will ask you: “Why you lookin’
at me like that?” In a smart way, you feel me? Jump outta the car, pull their
stick, all that, you feel me? I had the police ask me why am I walkin’ in the
street, why am I crossin’ the street, like. “What you mean? Why am I crossin’
the street?” I’m sayin’ something back, he jettin’ out of the car, so I get
back on the curb. You feel me? There’s no need for you to get out of the car
and—you feel me? And talk to me. You could see why am I walkin’ across the
street. They don’t say “Excuse me, sir,” “Come here,” none of that. You just
ask me why am I walkin’ across the street, you feel me? It’s not late outside,
it’s not none of that, so what is [it] you—I don’t know, there’s just a lot of
police out here that’s . . . being police, being what they do.
Be
smart, that’s what I would gotta say to you. Be smart. That’s all that’s—that’s
all [there] is to it, if you know you—say if you—I don’t care what you do out
there, that’s your hustle, and if you got somethin’ on you, don’t even pay the
police no mind—you feel? Don’t even draw no attention, but you not doin’
nothin’, I still don’t expect for you to draw no attention to
the police. Like, the police out here don’t care, even if you don’t got
nothin’ on you! Why look at the police, you ain’t got no—why
mug the police, you feel me? No reason at all, so, I wouldn’t even pay the
police no mind, I don’t pay the police out here no mind. They mug me all day,
I don’t care about none of that—they doin’, like, I see ’em,
you feel me, like, I don’t say too much stuff, the police and all that, like
for no reason at all, like, I’m just sayin’ that like. I’m out in these
streets.
[I
got beat]—it only happen—it happen ’bout four times, four times, that’s what I
remember, four times. You can’t protect yourself! When it come
to the police, you can’t say too much, but run your mouth and once you—once
they see you really runnin’ your mouth, they try catch you or try do something
to you. And especially if they ain’t got no reason, you feel me, to touch you,
they definitely won’t touch you, like, they chase you, all
this, and you ain’t got nothing on you, and they just chasin’ you? Man,
they—they worth it—gonna make it worth they while, they gonna find—they gonna
not even put nothin’ on you, they gonna beat you. Straight
like that, it ain’t no, “Oh, I’mma plant something on him,” they just do [what]
they wanna do, at that time, at that moment.
It
don’t—it don’t even matter this—at this point.
It don’t—it don’t even matter if they black or white. I
never—I don’t even—it ain’t no black or white situation. I ain’t tryin’ to hear
that. I seen plenty of black officers do it, and I’m black, you feel me, to
black people. And I seen plenty of white police do it. And I done seen ’em do
it together. It ain’t no—no racist thing, if
that’s what I—I don’t see no racist thing comin’ into play. I think it’s a
hatred thing. Like, they hate, you feel me, like, if I ca—if
you can’t find nothing on me, what’s the whole point of you lockin’ me up, or
you beatin’ me up, you feel me? For no reason. Cause I made you run? Come on
now, like, you train to do this, like. Stuff happen every day
in Baltimore City.
I
don’t know, like the hood police be hatin’. Like, they just a
hateful—they just hateful people, like. They could see you have a couple of
dollars in your hand, no drugs, no nothin’, just a couple of dollars, and think
you doin’ wrong. You don’t know me, I work! So what are you sayin’, like. But
you pullin’ me over, ask where my money come from. You don’t got no right to
ask me where my money comin’ from. You don’t got no right to check me, you feel
me. Like, you don’t have no warrant, no nothin’. To put your hands on me,
period, but hey, they do it. I don’t fuss with you over nothin’ like that. I
know you the police and you gonna do what you want, regardless. And you got a
big stick, so. So, hey.
James Baldwin
From A Rap On Race
By Margaret Mead and James Baldwin
“Walk on a Leaf”
From A Rap On Race
By Margaret Mead and James Baldwin
“Walk on a Leaf”
Somebody
said, Allen Ginsberg said, “Don’t call a cop a pig. Call him a friend. You call
him a friend, he’ll act like a friend.” I know more about cops than that. What
I do know—what I do know—is that I do not like to be
corralled. I don’t like being a subject nation. That I do know. And I don’t
care how well the cops are educated! I know what their role is
in my life! And I will not accept it. I know that my situation cannot be
endured. It cannot be endured.
And
if I turn into a monster by trying to change it, that is something, a risk, my
soul will have to take. I’m not being objective. I’m trying to say this: We
been talking about time present, time past. According to the West I have no
history. I’ve had to wrest my identity out of the jaws of the West. We did that
on a famous day in Washington. I was there. And do you know the answer we got?
Two weeks later? Ten days later? Out of that enormous petition? Know the first answer
that the Republic gave us? My phone rang one morning. I was back in Hollywood,
God knows why. And a CORE worker was telling me—she could hardly talk—that four
black girls had been bombed into eternity in a Sunday school in Birmingham.
That was the answer the Republic gave! The Republic includes you, includes me
too. You are responsible. I am responsible.
It
doesn’t matter what one tries. God knows, you know . . . I—I’m not the least
interested in carrying on the nightmare. Nevertheless, if I don’t, I, Jimmy,
don’t accept the very brutal fact, which is not extraordinary, it’s happened to
everybody else in the world, too, but if I pretend that it did not happen to
me, that I was not there, then I cannot live. I—I’m not talking about . . . I’m
not talking about going back. Nobody—nobody can, anyway. But the past is the
present, my situation is—our situation, really—my situation presents itself to
me as exceedingly urgent. I cannot lie to myself about some things. I cannot—I
don’t mean anybody else here. I mean that I have to know something about myself
and my countrymen. The most terrible thing about it is not the lootings, the
fires, or the burnings, the bombings; that’s bad enough. What is really
terrible—is to face the fact that you cannot trust your countrymen. That you
cannot trust them. For the assumptions under which they live, are antithetical
to any hope you may have to live. It is a terrible omen when you see an
American flag on somebody’s car and realize that’s your enemy. In principle,
it’s your flag, too.
If
I, Jimmy, really offend you, Margaret, and I pretend I haven’t, I have sealed
my life off from all life, all light and all air. I will not get past my crime
if I pretend I did not. If I have offended you, then I have to come to you and
say, “I’m sorry, please forgive me.” I’m only talking about that, and if I
can’t do that, then I cannot live. I don’t mean I have a bill to pay back. We
are living in a kind of theology. You are identified with the angels. I’m
identified with the devil. That’s what I mean by history being present.
Luckily,
I’m not 15, but if I were, how in the world would I achieve
any respect for human life, or any sense of history? What I’m trying to say is
that if I were young, I would find myself with no models. That’s a very crucial
situation. When you consider what we have done! Our generation! The world that
we’ve created. If I was 15, I would feel hopeless too! You see what one’s gotta
do is try to face…what I’m trying to get at, is . . . I read a little book
called The Way It Spozed to Be [James Herndon; Simon and
Schuster, 1968]. And it was poetry and
things written by little black children, Mexican, Puerto Rican children,
various schools in—land of free and the home of the brave. And the teacher, he
made a compilation of the poetry that his kids wrote. He dealt with them as though
they were in fact, as in fact all children are—all human beings are—a kind of
miracle! And for that very tiny book, about 30 pages long, one boy wrote a
poem. Sixteen years old. He was in prison. It ended—four lines I never will
forget. “Walk on water, walk on a leaf. Hardest of all is walk in grief.”
What
I’m getting at, I hope, is that there is a tremendous national, moral, global
waste. And the question is: How can it be arrested? That’s an enormous
question. Look. You and I are both whatever we have become. Curtain will come
down eventually. But! What should we do about the children? We are responsible,
in so far as we’re responsible at all, we are responsible for the future of
this world.
Congressman John Lewis
U.S. Representative
“Brother”
U.S. Representative
“Brother”
On
our way. On this trip that we been takin’ for the past 13 years. I been going
back every year since 1965. Back to Selma. To commemorate the anniversary of
Bloody Sunday, that took place on March 7, 1965. But we usually stop in
Birmingham for a day. And then we go to Montgomery for a day. And then we go
Selma.
But
on this trip, to Montgomery, we stopped at First Baptist Church, the church
that was pastored by the Reverend Ralph Abernathy. It’s the same church where I
met the Dr. Martin Luther King and the Reverend Abernathy. In the spring of
1958.
Young
police officer—the chief—the chief came to the church to speak on behalf of the
mayor that was not available. And he gave a very movin’ speech to the audience.
The church was full. Black. White. Latino. Asian American. Members
of Congress. Staffers. Family members, children and grandchildren. And he said,
“What happened in Montgomery 52 years ago durin’ the freedom ride was not
right,” he said. “Fifty-two years ago was not right. The police department
didn’t show up. They allowed a angry mob to come and beat you,” and he said,
“Congressman! I’m sorry for what happened. I want to apologize. This is not the
Montgomery that we want Montgomery to be. This is not the police department
that I want to be the chief of. Before any officers are hired,” he said, “they
go through trainin’.
They
have to study the life of Rosa Parks. The life of Martin Luther King Jr. They
have to visit the historic sites of the movement. They have to know what
happened in Birmingham and what happened in Montgomery and what happened in
Selma.” He said, “I want you to forgive us.” He said, “To show the respect that
I have for you and for the movement I want to take off my badge and give it to
you.”
And
the church was so quiet. No one sayin’ a word. And I stood up to accept the
badge. And I started cryin’. And everybody in the church started cryin’. There
was not a dry eye in the church.
And
I said, “Officer. Chief. I cannot accept your badge. I’m not worthy to accept
your badge. Don’t you need it?”
He
said, “Congressman Lewis, I can get another one. I want you to have my badge.”
And
I took it. And I will hold on to it forever. But he hugged me. I hugged him. I
cried some more. And you had Democrats and Republicans in the church. Cryin’.
And his young deputy assistant. A young African American. Was sittin’ down. He
couldn’t stand. He cried so much, like a baby, really.
It
was the first time that a police chief in any city where I visited or where I
got arrested durin’ the ’60s ever apologized, or where I was beaten. Or where I
was beaten. It was a moment of grace. It was a moment of reconciliation. [The
Chief] was very young, he was not even born 52 years ago. So he was offerin’ an
apology and to be forgiven on behalf of his associates, his colleagues of the
past.
[It’s
a moment of grace.] It means that sufferin’ and the pain that many of the
people have suffered have been redeemed.
And
then for the police officer, the chief, to come and apologize. To ask to be
forgiven. It—it felt so good, and at the same time so freein’ and liberatin’.
To have this young man come up. He hugged me and held me. I felt like, you
know, I’m not worthy. You know, I’m just one. But many people were beaten.
It
is amazing grace. You know the line in there, “Saved a wretch like me”? In a
sense, it’s saying that we all have fallen short! Cause we all just tryin’ to
just make it! We all searching! As Dr. King said, we were out to redeem the
soul of America. But we first have to redeem ourselves.
This
message. This act of grace of the badge says to me, “Hold on.” And, “Never give
up. Never give in.” “Never lose faith. Keep the faith.”
Even
in this day and age for a city like Montgomery. For this young man, somethin’
moved him. And it takes what I call raw courage. To go with the spirit. To go
with his heart. His soul. He’s a very, he’s really a very interestin’ man. I
been thinking about callin’ him. “How ya doin’?”
The
only time somethin’ happened like this before was a member of the Klan from
Rock Hill, South Carolina, that beat me and my seatmate. On May 9, 1961, durin’
the Freedom Ride. He came here to this office in February ’09. His son had been
encouraging his father to seek out the people he had wronged.
And
he came in the office and said, “Mr. Lewis, I’m one of the people that beat you
on May 9, 1961. I want to apologize.” He said, “Will you forgive me?”
I
said, “I forgive you. I accept your apology.”
His
son started cryin’. He started cryin’. I started cryin’. He hugged me. I hugged
him. His son hugged me. And since that time, I seen this guy four times since
then.
He
called me “brother.” And I call him “brother.”
[The
event Congressman Lewis describe above occurred on 2 March 2013. The police chief was Kevin Murphy, 50.]
We stop the show in the middle of the play. I know my limitations. And I know that
there are people in the audience who can make a real difference. We divide the
audience up into small groups of 20 and send them off for facilitated
conversations. They talk about the performance, but they make commitments about
what they are going to do.
Thank you to Berkeley Rep and the American Repertory Theater for working
with me on the first experiment that we call the Second Act. It is challenging,
and Berkeley and ART went for it, logistics and all.
I want someone somewhere in the audience of Notes From the Field to
do something to break the school-to-prison pipeline and/or ignite the new civil
rights movement.
The Ground on Which “We” Stand?
“Ground,” as Wilson’s speech is now called, is “The Ground on
Which I Stand.” I see and hear it referred to as “The Ground
on Which We Stand.”
Wilson was a “race man,” as we blacks who fought for the race are called.
He proudly carried the blood-stained banner of black struggle. From the point
of view of his “I,” some among us were moved, others motivated, others
outraged, others frightened, others perplexed, others full of guilt.
In 1996 and after, many of you stood in relationship to
Wilson’s ground.
Those of us who were moved, are moved, must move.
So an action, a move-ment, requires as many movers, shakers and seekers
as it can attract.
Our ground seems
to me to be very complex.
We all meet here with different histories, different banners of
struggle, and we meet at different junctures in our histories. We are a map
with some intersecting points and many straying lines in search of connection.
Most of us want to board the train toward progress, equity, self-fulfillment,
helping fulfill the lives of others, toward protecting all living beings and
natural resources. And toward love.
I have now visited the Island of Gorée in Senegal. The holding pens
where many Africans were held before being put into the bowels of slave ships
and sent to this country.
But before my forefathers got here, Native Americans were on this
ground. Many of them, too, were transported from their homeland to another
place. The Trail of Tears. A national disgrace. Some now live on fractured
lands, among fractured lives and disrupted joys; sometimes in beautiful
surroundings, sometimes not. Their youth have, statistics tell us, an epidemic
of suicide, despair, and depression. I was welcomed to the river on the Yurok
reservation in Northern California. I found myself saturated by their history,
their dances, their modern struggle against poverty, drug addiction,
alcoholism, teen suicide, and violence.
Trump promised a wall. When I was doing research for my play Twilight:
Los Angeles, journalist/musician Rubén Martínez told me that that no wall
will hold Mexicans back, because it is not only jobs that they seek. They seek
their homeland. After all, some Mexicans are pulled by deep ancestral forces.
They believe that California is Mexico.
Migration is human history. Migration is human present and human future.
Those who came in a variety of migrations from Asia. A variety of migrations
from Europe, throughout American history, running from genocides or poverty or
dogmas. We would not have imagined the profound otherness of Muslims 20 years
ago.
Our ground is complex because 20 years have passed since Wilson/Brustein
nailed their edicts to the pages of American Theatre.
Wilson/Brustein was before:
9/11. Which burst our world open in all ways, and certainly in racial
ways.
The iPhone. Which has connected us around the world, in ways that both
foster brother and sisterhood and threaten to bring us closer to evil.
Google Maps.
Spotify.
SoulCycle.
High school students, primarily Latino, staging walkouts in Los Angeles,
Houston, and other cities, boycotting schools and businesses in support of
immigrant rights and equality.
“Black-ish.”
Shonda Rhimes.
Mainstreaming of the TED conference. Mainstreaming of TEDx.
The proliferation of places and journals that gather free content and
charge money for the public to access it.
A sitting U.S. president visited a federal penitentiary (Obama). A
sitting U.S. president visited an Indian reservation (Obama).
Jeremy Lin became the first American born NBA player to be of
Chinese/Taiwanese descent.
Minutemen Project, with its civilians, took it upon themselves to sit
down at the Mexican-American border in their version of a neighborhood watch.
“The West Wing” television show.
Reality television.
The term “white privilege” moved from primarily academic circles to
mainstream parlance.
Rashes of violence reached the peak that is sweeping us now.
Orlando. Which happened just shy of the one-year memorial of the
massacre at Mother Emanuel AME church in Charleston South Carolina.
The first black president.
Expectation of a potential first woman president.
Donald Trump.
Caitlyn Jenner.
Black Lives Matter.
Hamilton. Imagine a
conversation between Lin-Manuel Miranda, Wilson, and Brustein. What would
Wilson or Brustein think of a Latino playing Alexander Hamilton, translating a
white man’s book? Or a black man playing Aaron Burr?
The Ground on Which the American Theatre Stands Is
Not Just
Theatres are convening places. Communities need them, our country needs
them, the world needs them. But some communities do not have this experience in
their schools or inside of theatre buildings.
Many of us in this room are concerned, even horrified, by the growing
gap between rich and poor in this country. Many of us want to do something
about inequality. Our mission statements and grants applications make us sound
as though we are world renewal projects, projects that would lead to the
betterment of mankind. But let’s look in the mirror.
The DeVos Institute of Arts Management at the University of
Maryland released a report. Many of you know of it. There was controversy
surrounding its release. To my eye, it gives valuable history and statistics.
Among them:
The highest reported compensation for leaders in mainstream theatres is
$605,361. The median is $388,812. The lowest is $316,134.
The highest reported compensation for a leader at a Latino theatre is
$88,539. The median is $51,298. The lowest is $9,970.
The highest compensation for a leader in African-American theatre is
$110,000. The median is $62,692. The lowest is $29,408.
What shall we do about our problematic statistics? Who is welcome in
leadership roles? What kinds of theatres are welcome in communities and in this
country? What kind of artists are radically welcomed? To whom is hospitality
extended?
The theatre does not exist in a vacuum. Scholars of contemporary theatre
look at the ’80s and point to a severe decline in smaller arts groups. Some say
survival required a corporate attitude on boards. Alisa Solomon wrote a deeply
researched article in the Village Voice in December 1992, titled
“Identity Crisis: Can the Arts Survive Capitalism?” She quoted one director who
said, “In the ’70s, when you went to meet a funder it was enough to wear a
suit. But in the ’80s, the whole organization had to be dressed like Wall
Street.”
Our situation now needs different and new economics. How can we say in
our mission statements and grant applications that we support and perpetuate
the best in human instincts and live with the inequality that is so evident in
the arts?
Take what was learned by figuring out how to increase square footage and
increase the wages of actors, designers, and other artists. We can no longer
assume that people are willing to starve for the theatre. We lose them to other
professions in the entertainment industry and we lose out on talent who would
never dare try because the economy is so bad.
Perhaps we should combine our forces. Invest in some large facilities in
which a diverse group of people with diverse missions can share administrative
costs, share rent costs, share the responsibility for making a healthy
endowment, share the development plan, and potentially share and crisscross
audiences. By diverse I include those who announce themselves as the white
privileged as well as the other cultures sometimes considered marginal. And
though I’d like to see work that is activist and dedicated to social justice, I
am not a snob. (I myself just played Hawkwoman’s past life on “DC’s Legends of
Tomorrow.”) Artistic experimentation would be the goal. Artistic innovation.
Economic innovation. Leadership innovation. Developing skills for new leaders
and new artists would be the goal. Revealing more about the grounds on which we
stand would be the goal.
We find ourselves in the midst of an economic, security, and moral
crisis. In the arts, we cannot save the world, we cannot teach reading and math
through drama, music and dance, but we can prick and instigate the growth of
the public moral imagination. Develop a radical welcome.
The idea of a radical welcome comes from the Christian church. To quote:
“Radical welcome is first and foremost a spiritual practice. It combines the
Christian ministry of welcome and hospitality with a faithful commitment to
doing the theological, spiritual and systemic work to
eliminate historic, systemic barriers that limit the genuine embrace of groups
generally marginalized in mainline churches (young adults, the poor, LGBT
people, people of color, people with disabilities).”
Develop a spirit of hospitality, of radical hospitality. As Derrida
wrote [Of Hospitality; Stanford
University Press, 2000]:
Let
us say yes to who or what turns up, before any determination, before
any anticipation, before any identification, whether or not it
has to do with a foreigner, an immigrant, an invited
guest, or an unexpected visitor, whether or not the new
arrival is the citizen of another country, a human, animal, or divine
creature, a living or dead thing, male or female.
Develop a radical hospitality towards one another and toward the global
public on whose ground we stand.
Thank you.
